The midnight chant of the monks soon after dropped into silence; but Emily remained at the casement watching the setting moon, and the valley sinking into deep shade, and willing to prolong her present state of mind. At length she retired to her mattress, and sunk intc tranquil slumber. CHAPTER V. "While in the rosy vale Love breathed his infant sighs, from anguish free." THOMSON. ST. AUBERT, sufficiently restored by a night's repose to pursue his journey, set out in the morning, with his family and Valancourt, for Rousillon, which he hoped to reach before nightfall. The scenes through which they now passed were as wild and romantic as any they had yet observed with this difference, that beauty, every now and then, softened the landscape into smiles. Little woody recesses appeared among the mountains, covered with bright verdure and flowers; or a pastoral valley opened its grassy bosom in the shade of the cliffs, with flocks and herds loitering along the banks of a rivulet that refreshed it with perpetual green. St. Aubert could not repent the having taker this fatiguing road, though he was this day, also, frequently obliged to alight, to walk along the rugged precipice, and to climb the steep and flinty mountains. The wonderful sublimity and variety of the prospects repaid him for all this; and the enthusiasm with which they were viewed by his young companions heightened his own, and awakened a romembrance of all the delightful emotions of his early days, when the sublime charms of nature were first unveiled to him. He found great pleasure in conversing with Valancourt, and in listening to his ingenious remarks: the fire and simplicity of his manners seemned to render him a characteristic figure in the scenes around them; and St. Aubert discovered in his sentiments the justness and the dignity of an elevated mind unbiased by intercourse with the world. He perceived that his opinions were formed rather than imbibed-were more the result of thought than of learning of the world he seemed to know nothing, for he believed well of all mankind; and this opinion gave him the reflected image of his own heart. St. Aubert, as he sometimes lingered to examine the wild plants in his path, often looked forward with pleasure to Emily and Valancourt, as they strolled on together-he, with a countenance of animated delight, pointing to her attention some grand feature of the scene, and she, listening and observing with a look of tender seriousness that spoke the elevation of her mind. They appeared liko tvo lovers who had never strayed beyond these their native mountains; whose situation had secluded them from the frivolities of common life; whose ideas were simple and grand, like the landscapes among which they moved; and who knew no other happiness than in the union of pure and affectionate hearts. St. Aubert smiled, and sighed at the romantic picture of felicity his fancy drew; and sighed again, to think that nature and simplicity were so little known to the world, as that their pleasures were thought romantic. The world, said he, pursuing this train of thought, ridicules a passion which it seldom feels: its scenes and its interests distract the mind, deprave the taste, corrupt the heart; and love cannot exist in a heart that has lost the meek dignity of innocence. Virtue and taste are nearly the same; for virtue is little more than active taste; and the most delicate affections of each combine in real love. How, then, are we to look TM, for love in great cities, where selfishness, dissipation, and insincerity supply the place of tenderness, simplicity, and truth? It was near noon, when the travellers, having arrived at a piece of steep and dangerous road, alighted to walk. The road wound up an ascent that was clothed with wood; and, instead of following the carriage, they entered the refreshing shade. A dewy coolness was diffused upon the air, which, with the bright verdure of turf that grew under the trees, the mingled fragrance of flowers and of balm, thyme, and lavender that enriched it, and the grandeur of the pines, beech, and chestnuts that overshadowed them, rendered this a most delicious retreat. Sometimes the thick foliage excluded all view of the country; at others, it admitted some partial catches of the distant scenery, which gave hints to the imagination of picture-landscapes more interesting, more impressive, than any that had been presented to the eye. The wanderers often lingered to indulge in these reveries of fancy. The pauses of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the conversations of Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent to-day than ever. Valancourt often dropped suddenly from the most animating vivacity into fits of deep musing; and there was sometimes an unaffected melancholy in his smile, which Emily could not avoid understanding, for her heart was interested in the sentiment it spoke. St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter under them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction of the road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They had continued near the brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery it exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above. Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice, except his own echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain the road were equally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced, they perceived a shepherd's cabin, between the boles of the trees at some distance, and Valancourt bounded on first to ask assistance. When he reached it, he saw only two little children at play on the turf before the door. He looked into the hut, but no person was there; and the eldest of the boys told him that their father was with his flocks, and their mother was gone down into the vale, but would be back presently. As he stood, considering what was farther to be done, on a sudden he heard Michael's voice roaring forth most manfully among the cliffs above, till he made their echoes ring. Valancourt immediately answered the call, and endeavored to make his way through the thicket that clothed the steeps, following the direction of the sound. After much struggle over brambles and precipices, he reached Michael, and at length prevailed with him to be silent, and to listen to him. The road was at a considerable distance from the spot where.St. Aubert and Emily were; the carriage could not easily return to the entrance of the wood; and, since it would be very fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep road to the place where it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find a more easy ascent, by the way he had himself passed. Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested themselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which overshadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, should return. The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to observe the strangers, while the younger continued his little gambols, and teased his brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked with pleasure upon this picture of infantine simplicity, till it brought to his remembrance his own boys, whom he had lost about the age of these, and their lamented mother; and he sunk into thoughtfulness, which Emily ob serving, she immediately began to sing one of those simple and lively airs he was so fond of, and which she knew how to give with the most captivating sweetness. St. Aubert smiled on her through his tears, took her hand, and pressed it affectionately, and then tried to dissipate the melancholy reflections that lingered in his mind. While she sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupt her, and paused at a little distance to listen. When she had concluded, he joined the party, and told them he had found Michael, as well as a way by which he thought they could ascend the cliff to the carriage He pointed to the woody steeps above, which St. Aubert surveyed with an anxious eye. He was already wearied by his walk, and this ascent was formidable to him. He thought, however, it would be less toilsome than the long and broken road, and he determined to attempt it; but Emily, ever watchful of his ease, proposing that he should rest, and dine before they proceeded farther, Valancourt went to the carriage for the refreshments deposited there. On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain, to where the woods opened a grand and extensive prospect; and thither they were preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join the children, and caress and weep over them. The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her. She took the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving the strangers, hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage. St. Aubert, on inquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her husband, who was a shepherd, and lived here in the summer months to watch over the flocks he led to feed upon these mountains, had lost, on the preceding night, his little all. A gang of gipsies, who had for some time infested the neighborhood, had driven away several of his master's sheep. Jacques, added the shepherd's wife, had saved a little money, and had bought a few sheep with it, and now they must go to his master, for those that are stolen; and, what is worse than all, his mas ter, when he comes to know how it is, will trust him no longer with the care of his flocks, for he is a hard man! and then what is to become of our childrer. ? The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her manner in relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her story; and Valancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what was the value of the stolen sheep; on hearing which, he turned away with a look of disappointment. St. Aubert put some money into her hand; Emily, too, gave something from her little purse, and they walked towards the cliff; but Valancourt lingered behind, and spoke to the shepherd's wife, who was now weeping with gratitude and surprise. Ile inquired how much money was yet wanting to replace the stolen sheep, and found it was a sum very little short of all he had about him. He was perplexed and distressed. This sum, then, said he to himself, would make this poor family completely happy-it is in my power to give it—to make them completely happy! But what is to become of ne? how shall I contrive to reach home with the little money that will emain? For a moment he stood, unwilling to forego the luxury of raising a family from ruin to happiness, yet considering the difficulties of pursuing his journey with so small a sum as would be left. While he was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself appeared; his children ran to meet him; he took one of them in his arms, and with the other clinging to his coat, came forward with a loitering step. His forlorn and melancholy look determined Valancourt at once; he threw down all the money he had, except a very few louis, and bounded away after St. Aubert and Emily, who were proceeding slowly up the steep. Valancourt had seldom felt his heart so light as at this moment; his gay spirits danced with pleasure; every object around him appeared more interesting or beautiful than before. St. Aubert observed the uncommon vivacity of his countenance: What has pleased you so much? said he. Oh, what a lovely day! replied Valancourt; how brightly the sun shines! how pure this air! what enchanting scenery! It is, indeed, enchanting, said St. Aubert, whom early experience had taught to understand the nature of Valancourt's present feelings. What a pity that the wealthy, who can command such sunshine, should ever pass their days in gloom-in the cold shade of selfishness! For you, my young friend, may the sun always shine as brightly as at this moment! may your own conduct always give you the sunshine of benevolence and reason united. Valancourt, highly flattered by this compliment, could make no reply but by a smile of gratitude. They continued to wind under the woods, between the grassy knolls of the mountain; and, as they reached the shady summit which he had pointed out, the whole party burst into an exclamation. Behind the spot where they stood, the rock rose perpendicularly in a massy wall to a considerable height, and then branched out into overhanging crags. Their gray tints were well contrasted by the bright hues of the plants and wild-flowers that grew in their fractured sides, and were deepened by the gloom of the pines and cedars that waved above. The steeps below, over which the eye passed abruptly to the valley, were fringed with thickets of Alpine shrubs; and lower still appeared the tufted tops of the chestnut woods that clothed their base-among which peeped forth the shepherd's cottage just left by the travellers, with its bluish smoke curling high in the air. On every side appeared the majestic summits of the Pyrenees; some exhibiting tremendous crags of marble, whose appearance was changing every instant as the varying lights fell upon their surface; others, still higher, displaying only snowy points, while their lower steeps were covered almost invariably with forests of pine, larch, and oak, that stretched down to the vale. This was one of the narrow valleys that open from the Pyrenees into the country of Rousillon, and whose green pastures and cultivated beauty form a decided and wonderful contrast to the romantic grandeur that environs it. Through a vista of the mountains appeared the lowlands of Rousillon, tinted with the blue haze of distance, as they united with the waters of the Mediterranean; where, on a promontory which marked the boundary of the shore, stood a lonely beacon, over which were seen circling flights of sea-fowl. Beyond appeared, now and then, a stealing sail, white with the sunbeam, and whose progress was perceivable by its approach to the lighthouse. Sometimes, too, was seen a sail so distant that it served only to mark the line of separation between the sky and the waves. On the other side of the valley, immediately opposite to the spot vhere the travellers rested, a rocky pass opened towards Gascony. Iere no sign of cultivation appeared. The rocks of granite that screened the glen rose abruptly from their base, and stretched their barren points to the clouds, unvaried with woods, and uncheered even by a hunter's cabin. Sometimes, indeed, a gigantic larch threw its long shade over the precipice, and here and there a cliff reared on its brow a monumental cross, to tell the traveller the fate of him who had ventured thither before. This spot seemed the very haunt of banditti; and Emily, as she looked down upon it, almost expected to see them stealing out from some hollow cave to look for their prey. Soon after, an object no less terrific struck her-a gibbet, standing on a point of a rock near the entrance of the pass, and immediately over one of the crosses she had before observed. These were hieroglyphics that told a plain and dreadful story. She forebore to point it out to St. Aubert; but it threw a gloom over her spirits, and made her anxious to hasten forward, that they might with certainty reach Rousillon before nightfall. It was necessary, however, that St. Aubert should take some refreshment; and, seating themselves on the short, dry turf, they opened the basket of provisions, while "by breezy murmurs cool'd, Broad o'er their heads the verdant cedars wave, -they draw Ethereal soul, their drink reviving gales St. Aubert was revived by the rest, and by the serene air of this summit; and Valancourt was so charmed with all around, and with the conversation of his companions, that he seemed to have forgotten he had any farther to go. Having concluded their simple repast, they gave a |